


Like a Fight

by Imagineitdear



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes sleeps with a ton of women okay, But he's still gay, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gay Bucky Barnes, Getting Back Together, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Bucky Barnes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Stucky in Wakanda, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 05:13:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15656469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagineitdear/pseuds/Imagineitdear
Summary: His face finally started resembling something close to normal, earlier this morning. But now? Now those same bruises, mottled green and fading brown, blended like a Van Gogh into the bright pink puffiness of his brand-new shiner.Only Steve could look like a goddamn painting with half his face pummeled in.(OR: The first time, it comes to Bucky gradually. The second time, he realizes it all at once.)





	Like a Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Part One is before CA:TFA, Part Two will be post-CA:TWS mostly. Enjoy!

PART ONE: Bucky Barnes

* * *

 

**1934**

He almost ran off, he was so nervous.

_Get it together, Barnes._

But Bucky Barnes was no chicken, no matter how many times Steve called him one. He flashed the dame his best smile—Betsy was her name, who he’d met, danced, and kissed all in one night—when she looked up at him, the smile that basically said whatever the situation called for. In this case, that he was up and raring to go.

Which he was not.

His hands were shaking, buried in his pants pockets as she walked him up the stairs of her empty home. He felt a bit nauseous. Entirely unlike him, considering he was alone with one of the prettier dames he ever did see—soft blond hair, blue eyes, and lips that could pout too damn well for him say no to a thing.

Which is how he got here, drawn into her bedroom at the end of the upstairs hallway—small and not a well-to-do home, but certainly larger than his—because he couldn’t think of a single good reason not to.

_Well, that was reason enough, wasn’t it?_

But god, could she kiss. He pushed her against the door as soon as it was closed, cradling her face in his hands. She had a mouth, but it was good for more than just smirking and pouting and teasing him with it tucked under her teeth. Betsy may have been the one physically cornered, but the dame knew how to dominate a kiss, and Bucky found himself just holding on for dear life. Her hands raked up and down his back, over his chest, and he let one of his hands move down to her waist, then lower to her ass. She made an approving sound as he clutched it, hiking one leg around him.

Eventually they paused for breath. Which was good, because Bucky had never felt more light-headed. He still managed to smile down at her, run a hand through her lovely hair. Not nauseous any longer, at least.

She grinned impishly up at him, then took that same hand in hers, directing it downwards, pressing it against one of her breasts. His stomach flipped.

Betsy pouted after a moment. “What, they too small for ya?” she said in a very offended tone, and Bucky’s hand tightened reflexively, pulling a tiny gasp from her.

“Naw,” Bucky said, making sure to grin that rakish smile at her again. “Just . . . never felt one before.”

That wasn’t true, not by a long shot, but usually he had time to prepare before initiating it himself.

Her pout immediately morphed into a self-satisfied smirk. “Am I taking your virtue tonight, Bucky Barnes?”

_Oh god, was she? Is that what the plan was?_

Bucky felt momentarily lost. He was hoping for a blow-job, to be honest. Something easy, safe, simple.

Bucky needed to at some point, though. That was the truth of it. He was seventeen years old and he’d never fully seen a girl naked—not that anybody else would guess it. Steve certainly assumed Bucky had been stealing girls’ virtues for years now.

_Alright, yeah. As good a time as ever._

He raked a hand through his hair, shrugged, and smiled before leaning down to nip at her neck. “Well are ya?” he whispered into her ear.

Clothes quickly disappeared as they made their way to her small bed, and Bucky had to keep from staring at her bareness. But she quickly distracted him with two very pale legs, which wrapped around his waist with practiced grace. “I’m going to be your teacher, Bucky Barnes,” she told him after a few more minutes of kissing, then pushed at his shoulders.

Bucky went down till she stopped him, his face particularly close to a curly patch of hair. He swallowed hard at the shiny, pink slit now visible, wondering where the hole was.

Betsy’s legs moved to rest over his shoulders before she took one of his hands and guided it again—touching her inner thighs and then up and down the slit. “That’s how a girl likes it, at first,” she said, a bit breathless as he kept stroking down with his thumb. He nodded, grinning. “And here.”

She moved his fingers to touch the very top of the slit, brushing against a wet nub. Her legs shuddered a little the moment he did.

After that she let him practice, which Bucky appreciated. He’d never seen a woman’s parts this close-up. Ruth technically let him put his hand up her skirt a year ago while they kissed—he just hadn’t known exactly what it was, that he’d been touching before.

After a bit Betsy started moaning, rocking with his touches, which made Bucky feel a bit smug. He leaned down and, perhaps instinctively, swiped a lick up her slit, the tip of his tongue catching on the nub. It tasted strange. She dug her hands into his shoulders, surprising him by letting out a small shriek.

“You are one of a kind,” Betsy told him after getting her breath back, brushing a thumb against his mouth. “I want you inside me now.”

That was when the situation went from nerve-wracking to downright embarrassing.

Bucky knew it, but he looked down to check anyway—and he was not hard. Not at all. Kissing got a rise out of him, usually, and quite a few girls had given him head before. But apparently none of this touching worked for him. Or he had a limp cock condition of some sort. Betsy saw as well, as he sat on his haunches in between her legs. Her face went from excited to unreadable.

Bucky felt the need to defend himself. “Nerves,” he came up with, “Sorry. I’m sure we just give it a little bit, and I’ll be good to go.” He leaned down over her, forearms resting over her head, and waited for a nod. He couldn’t decide if he hoped for a yes or no.

Betsy narrowed her eyes at him, reminded him, “I am a very beautiful woman, Bucky,” and wrapped an arm around his neck to kiss him.

It got a little better after that, with his eyes on her pretty face or shut tight as their tongues thrust alongside each other. Bucky managed to get his cock ready, just focusing on sensation. Her hand on him helped, too. Finally Betsy flipped them over, slowly sat on his cock, and rode him. Gently, then a bit deeper, then hard and fast. Bucky was gone after that—swearing, blabbing nonsense, praising her, he couldn’t be sure if one or all—and he had no idea if she’d peaked or not when he finally came to. She’d pulled off before he came, finished him off with her hand. He dimly recalled her grabbing a towel to clean up with after that, but her sweaty body was already pressed contentedly against his side.

Bucky wound an arm around her and pressed a kiss to the top of her blond head, sighing.

_There you go, Barnes. Not so terrible after all._

But then Betsy murmured “Bucky?” a minute later, pausing the finger that had been tracing patterns up and down his chest. Bucky put on that rakish grin and leaned back to look at her. He wasn’t sure what she wanted to hear, but the smile usually got the job done.

Which was when the whole situation went from embarrassing to fucking _mortifying_.

“Bucky, who’s Steve?”

* * *

 

**1935**

Needless to say Bucky made an effort to never see Betsy again.

He watched Steve for the next few days, and realized the problem: Betsy looked like him. Skinny, small, blond and blue-eyed. Even had that fight in her like Steve did, that fiery attitude. Bucky set himself up, picking a dame just like his best friend. Of course his pleasure-addled mind got confused. He would admit to being stupid at least some of the time.

That was definitely one of those times.

Bucky also reasoned that he might not have thought of Steve if he knew Steve had his own dame. Bucky’s brain probably felt sorry for the kid, alone with his mom and never been kissed. He immediately resolved to end such an issue—which meant bringing Steve with him to everything.

The first time, a month into the new year, Steve had been excited.

“Yours is named Delilah, she’s a friend of Patty’s,” Bucky explained on their way to picking up the girls. He’d met Patty a week earlier dancing, though nothing got near as far as with Betsy. She was exactly what he’d been looking for: dark-haired, busty, tall.

_Nothing like Steve, that's for sure._

He and Steve were walking a few blocks to Patty’s apartment, after which the plan was to get ice cream and take a stroll through the city. “Have you seen her before?” Steve asked, a slight bounce to his step.

“Delilah? Naw. But Patty’s a knock-out, so I’m sure her friend’s gorgeous too.”

Bucky was right—Delilah was drop-dead gorgeous, slim and blond hair—but she was nearly as tall as Bucky was. Steve barely reached her shoulders. The look on both girls’ faces as they sized Steve up? Well. let’s just say Bucky was about impressed with them as they were with Steve.

“Meet the best guy I know,” he said anyway, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder and gesturing towards the girls.

 _J_ _ust you fucking dare._ “

Steve, this is Patty. And you must be Delilah.”

“Hi.” Steve smiled hesitantly; Delilah’s face went red and Patty just kept on staring.

“Problem, ladies?” Bucky quirked an eyebrow, crossing his arms to hide his clenched fists. Patty at least managed to plaster a smile on her face, then.

“Nice to meetcha, Steve,” she said, and they shook hands. Delilah’s lips flickered into some semblance of a smile.

The date carried on just like that, with Patty acting kindly to Steve—all to please Bucky, he wasn't an idiot—and Delilah ignoring Steve’s existence, even after he paid for her ice cream.

Bucky decided that was enough of that.

“It’s gettin’ a bit late, sweetie, let’s get you both home,” he said the second they were out of the parlor, city stroll be damned.

Delilah brightened and immediately agreed. Patty pouted but kissed him at the front of her apartment, and Bucky felt himself mechanically match her movements. Then she smiled sweetly at him and followed Delilah inside.

 _Goodbye and good_ riddance, _gals._

Steve didn’t say a word the entire way back, not even to protest that Bucky was walking him home. Bucky tried shoving him a little, just to get a rise out of him, but Steve just stumbled a little and kept walking. There was a bad taste in Bucky’s mouth the rest of the way; he wondered if it might be that waxy lipstick Patty’d been wearing.

“Steve,” Bucky said, and stopped. They were right outside Steve’s apartment, but the latter just kept walking. “ _Steve_.”

Steve huffed and turned on his heel, glaring at Bucky. “What is it?”

Bucky made up the distance, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “You’ve learned a valuable lesson tonight.” Steve kept glaring, so Bucky continued, “About dames, I mean. The beautiful ones—well, they ain’t always beautiful. On the inside.”

“Night, Buck,” Steve mumbled, and shrugged him off.

Bucky grabbed his arm before he could go. “Hey, _listen_.” Steve stopped struggling, slumped, and looked up at Bucky with eyes that glistened in the dark. Bucky swallowed at the sight, tried to think of the right words to say. “Listen. You’re worth ten of any other guy I know. I mean it. If those dames couldn’t see that, well. We both wasted our time on ‘em.”

Steve snorted, shaking his head. “Buck, no dame’s gonna want me. And kiss me? Not even the nice ones, like Patty--they'd have to stoop down!"

Bucky glared at him, clapped a firm hand on the side of his skinny neck. “Steven Rogers, you don’t need to worry about a damn thing. Besides, kissing ain’t all it’s cracked up to be anyway. It gets a bit boring after a while.”

Steve looked up at him with annoyed suspicion; but at least his eyes were dry now. Bucky counted that as a victory.

“Don’t believe me?” he said, smirking.

And it felt like the right thing to do. To prove to Steve, that is, that he wasn’t missing out on much in the end. Just a distraction, something to do.

So Bucky leaned forward and planted one on Steve Rogers.

Steve made a sound of shock at first, probably because it wasn’t really late enough for no one to notice, but Bucky kept it brief. Brotherly, if that was possible—just a press of lips, a second right against each other, then another little press before pulling back. He ignored the sharp zing of energy that went straight down through his toes, curled up in his gut. It was just from adrenaline, of course, because someone might see.

Bucky leaned back and meant to put on his rakish grin, but it faltered halfway. Steve was staring up at him with wide eyes, like his whole world had been rocked by that kiss. Like it meant something.

_God, did it?_

Bucky pulled him into a quick hug and said, “There, now you see. No more long faces, you hear? I’ll find you a better date next time.”

He turned around and left before he could see if Steve still wore that face.

 _Didn’t mean nothing_.

He whistled all the way home and tried not to think about why his mood had suddenly changed.

Maybe it was because Steve looked like Betsy, he reasoned that night in bed. She was his first time, so their resemblance got his body confused, probably. Made it think what it wanted was Steve.

But then, that didn’t make enough sense, an annoying voice reminded. Because his body hadn’t really cooperated with Betsy, now had it? Well. What then?

Bucky tossed and turned, not getting any sleep. Finally he decided it was just because Steve looked like a girl in general. It’s not like he’d never felt that way kissing a girl before.

 _Had he though? Felt like_ that _, ever once in his short life?_

It wasn’t Steve’s fault, the poor kid; he obviously just wanted a single dame to give him the time of day. But it wasn’t Bucky’s either. He’d just barely done the deed with a woman for the first time; he was still figuring things out. There was plenty of time to find a girl that made him feel all giddy and light on his feet.

_Plenty of time. Plenty of dames._

* * *

 

**1939**

By the time Bucky reached his twenty-second year he had been with many, many _, many_ women.

Paula’s and Pamela’s, Sandy’s and Sarah’s, Lizzy’s and Lisa’s, another Betsy or two and at least five Mary’s. Too many to count. Too many to remember. Too many to care.

Speaking of, he was currently buried in the thighs of a— _Martha? Was that her name?_ —grinning around the clit he was currently suckling ever-so-gently as the woman screamed her heart out. He’d learned a lot in his time since Betsy.

He thrust his tongue inside her for a little while, giving her time to come down as her thighs tremored around him. And would you know it, her cunt had become a slopping mess. Making it easier for him, in a moment.

“Need you,” she keened eventually, and Bucky looked up in feigned confusion.

“What was that? You need something, sweetheart?”

“James,” she whimpered, and Bucky obligingly sat up. He quickly flipped her over—it was better to just take control on that, rather than ask with the chance the dame would refuse—and helped her on to her hands and knees. The pale expanse of her back was beautiful, and he licked up the knobs of her spine. The woman— _Martha?—_ shuddered.

Bucky could then get a hand around his slightly-interested cock without any embarrassment, mouthing at her neck and imagining her blond hair shorter—shit, a _blond_ dame, he always ended up breaking that rule—and the moans coming out of her a bit, well. Lower.

It worked. It always did, and Bucky figured whatever got him to this was fine, since he was sticking it in a girl. And he liked doing that—liked how warm it was, how soft and wet, how they’d clamp around him when they came. It was nice, very pleasant. He’d rut into them and then pull out last second, wring out his seed onto their back. Onto Martha’s back, in this case. She groaned, and flopped down onto the mattress.

Bucky went home, not at all tempted by her pleas for him to stay the night, and found Steve already in bed.

Well, it was rather late, but usually he waited up for him. Bucky sighed, changed into his night clothes quickly to ward off the chill, and slipped into the already warm covers.

“Have fun?” murmured Steve, and of course the little shit was still awake.

Bucky meant to say something enthusiastic, but he couldn’t stop a sigh from gusting out.

“What is it?” Steve said louder, turning around to look at Bucky with concern.

Bucky gave up years ago trying to get away with a rakish grin on him; Steve could see right past it. He shook his head, blinked up at their cracked ceiling and tried to come up with a good answer.

“I think I want to settle down,” he found himself saying, and the words became truer out loud. “Yeah. Been having fun, all these years, but I think it’s high time I stop going out all night.”

“You going to get married?” Steve questioned, and Bucky looked at him. His face betrayed no opinion, just curiosity.

“’Course one day,” Bucky shrugged. “Maybe sooner than I think. But in the meantime, I’m going to focus on work.”

He was working at an auto shop, getting decent wages too, and his boss seemed to like him. Bucky hoped it was a place he could stay for good. He even had a little nest egg built up now, ready for the next time Steve got sick. That’d never been possible before.

“All right,” Steve said, and grinned. Bucky grinned back, suddenly very happy, mostly because somehow he’d made Steve happy.

Steve turned back around, though he scooted close enough that Bucky could put an arm around him like they did. He sighed in contentment, and Bucky could hear the way his breathing changed as he fell into sleep. Reedier, but deeper.

It sounded even better now—settling down, that is. No more dames, no more nights of empty pleasure and forgotten faces. Just work, and life. And Steve _._

 _Especially_ Steve.

Bucky pressed a small kiss at the nape of the other man’s neck, and told himself it was just for good dreams.

* * *

 

**1940**

A year later and Bucky was not working at the auto shop.

He’d been fired when Steve got pneumonia and couldn’t stand on his own, much less feed himself, so Bucky kept staying home from work. For  _f_ _ive weeks._ Five weeks of Steve coughing and moaning and practically dying. Shit, that scared him. A job was the least of his troubles.

But he’d been at the docks for two months now, unloading all morning and loading all afternoon, and Bucky was doing just fine. Sure, it wasn’t near as interesting as automobiles, but it kept food on their table and put muscle on his back. He could live with that.

Being at the docks all day opened Bucky’s eyes to a lot of quiet, unspoken things, too. Like what sailors did on long voyages, and what they paid women, and _men_ , to do when they docked.

 _Fairies_.

Of course he knew exactly what that was—guy who gets fucked by other men. He'd seen 'em before, just never so often. But the ‘other men’ in that equation? Well, that was something Bucky had never truly thought about.

Turned out, they just called themselves men.

He’d been walking home late, the sun already set, when Bucky heard a scuffle from an alley. His stomach immediately dropped— _not Steve, not again_ —and couldn’t stop himself from checking. Because he was always damn right.

This time Bucky nearly gave up the ghost when he turned the corner on the alley and saw. It was obviously something no one was supposed to see.

Two men—both of them rather tall, though one was a little skinnier—fucking against a wall.

He could see the angle too, the slide of the larger one’s cock in and out of the other’s ass. Smooth, gliding, like it was easy. And the guy getting fucked was open-mouthed, staring up at the sky like he was seeing heaven. The larger man kissed his neck softly, gently, thrusting into him with timed snaps of his hips—and Bucky ran away. He hoped they didn’t notice. He hoped he didn’t ruin it for them.

He ran back onto the street and then into another alleyway a few blocks later, chest heaving. It was cold, but sweat still poured down his back. He looked down, already knowing what he was going to see, but he didn’t want to believe it.

There it was. A huge tent in his pants, cock straining against the fabric, like he’d been jacking at it for minutes. He hissed as he adjusted himself, the slightest touch of his hand too much. His mind kept replaying, his cock kept throbbing, and Bucky didn’t know how to go home like this.

He did, and prayed a prayer of thanks that Steve was in a bad mood and ignored him that evening.

* * *

 

**MAY 1941**

Almost a whole 'nother year passed when Bucky was heading home from the docks again, clutching cash from pay day, and found himself stopping at an alley once more.

“Hey handsome,” a voice said, a little low for a woman, and he turned in shock to see a fairy leaning up against some empty crates, mouth in a rakish smile.

Bucky almost threw one back at him.

_Threw what, Barnes? A crate? Or a smile?_

“You want me to show you a good time?” the fairy cocked an eyebrow, and Bucky found himself looking around to see who heard instead of answering. Instead of saying _No thanks_.

No one was nearby.

Bucky’s whole body felt jittery, too alive and too excited by this. This was a very bad idea. There was nothing good that would come of it. What if someone from his work saw? What if the police found out? What if Steve did?

Bucky looked back at the fairy and found himself nodding anyway.

The man led him to a discreet corner, immediately dropping to his knees. “You want my mouth, sailor?” he asked, and he must have mistaken Bucky for one, _that’s_ why he propositioned him, not because Bucky had a sign taped on his back saying he wanted men.

He did want, God help him—but not the fairy’s mouth.

For a second Bucky thought he should say yes, or maybe say _No_ and run for it, but he’d admit to being fucking stupid. A lot of the time. “Can I fuck you?” he asked instead.

The fairy blinked, looked him up and down, then taunted, “Can you?”

And god, that got Bucky going.

Bucky pulled him up, turned him around, and the man braced himself against the wall with ease. “It’s 2 dollars, for this.”

And “this” couldn’t be new for him, if not a regularity, as he pulled a little glass jar of something out of his pocket and thrust it behind him. “You have to use this, stretch me out first,” he explained, obviously recognizing Bucky as an amateur when he just stared at it in confusion.

Then he remembered how the men in the alley fucked, how they _glided_ , and thought that mystery might be solved.

Bucky hadn’t fucked a dame in the ass, even if a few times he’d thought about it. So when he pulled down the man’s pants—and god Bucky was already hard, wasn’t that it's own kind of fucking miracle—and started circling his hole, he did not expect how tight it was inside.

And hot. And smooth.

“Shit,” he breathed as he got one knuckle in, and the fairy huffed a laugh.

“If you want to actually get your cock in there ya need to do better than that.”

Bucky laughed too, and scooped up what must be Vaseline from the jar onto his fingers, resting his forehead on the man’s shoulder as he circled the rim and then nudged inside.

_Fuck, but that felt. Wow._

The fairy breathed out slowly, and Bucky was able to move in further, then further, till his whole finger seated inside.

“Good,” the man breathed, “that’s good sweetheart. Now get another one in, and fuck me on them a little.” Bucky obliged, pulling out and then nudging two fingers up into the man’s hole.

It was fucking _amazing_. Mostly because of everything else—his other hand was roaming, moving up and down the fairy’s flat chest, and the man’s breaths were clearly a _man’s_ , his voice low and encouraging—but all of it, all of it was so overwhelming Bucky felt tears prick the corner of his eyes as he fucked the man on his fingers.

The _man_. Not a fairy, a man. Just like Bucky.

 _Fuck_.

He wasn’t blond, he wasn’t blue-eyed, he wasn’t even very bony—but god, Bucky was turned on by this fella more than any dame _in his goddamn life_.

“All right, m’ready for ya,” the man said, ducking his head down and widening his legs. Bucky froze for a second, all at once feeling the urge to run. He couldn’t go through with it; he _shouldn’t_.

_This was too much. This was not enough._

“I need . . . I need,” he said, having no idea of the answer as he let his fingers slip out.

The man looked at him, over his shoulder, and said, “A name, maybe? You can call me whatever you want. Or Nate. That works too.”

Bucky’s panicking thoughts settled.

His name was Nate. This wasn’t another body to fuck, to prove something by, like with those poor dames. This was a man, and Bucky had never been harder in his life.

Bucky pulled out his cock, a sensitive, angry red, and began inching it inside Nate’s stretched hole. It was so tight, almost too tight—but then Nate rocked into it, and Bucky let out a groan.

They built up a rhythm, steady but fast. Bucky planted kisses all over the man’s neck, and Nate didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he took a hand off the wall and his arm started moving fast—and Bucky realized he was getting off on this. His brain nearly seized, and he came after a few erratic thrusts, shooting inside the man, faster than he even had with Betsy his first time. But she'd pulled him out before, and he'd done the same ever since, and for a second his heart missed a beat— _he was going to knock her up._

But then he pulled out and breathed out a laugh, because this was a man named Nate, not a nameless woman Bucky could put in the family way. The consequences were entirely different. Even if they were, in some ways, much more dire.

_Oh hell. What had he done?_

“Sorry,” he said, however, noticing the man was still trying to jack off. Nate stopped, sighing, but Bucky crowded him, shaking his head. “No, go ahead. I  . . . I can help, if you’d like.”

Nate sized him up and down, then grinned. “Yeah?”

He turned around into the same position as before, ass in the air and both hands braced on the wall. “Just jack me off with one hand, and fuck me with the other.”

Bucky blushed, but he nodded, trying not to seem too eager. He put some more Vaseline on his fingers and moved them back in—and accidentally released a whimper at how easy it was, how loose Nate’s hole was. Thanks to _him_. Shit, what a thought. Then he reached around and found a very hard cock, and began stroking in time with his fingers’ thrusts.

“There’s a spot, it’s really nice if you can find it,” Nate said, widening his stance even further. “Inside, just press around a little. I’ll let you know.”

Bucky nodded, and began poking around the man’s hole. It was a bit strange, but entirely worth it, because of the _way_ Nate let him know: a full-body shudder, all the way down his spine. Bucky rubbed against that spot again, and the man sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders tensing. He made strange little noises as Bucky started thrusting his fingers so they kept nudging that spot—and a moment later painted the wall and Bucky’s fingers with his come.

It was some of the best 2$ Bucky ever spent.

Walking home to Steve, though, it was also the most guilty 2$ he'd ever spent.

Probably because it was a waste of money, when they had so little and Bucky had just barely enough for rent. Steve’s job this month would have to entirely carry them now, for food.

That was okay. Bucky could skip lunches, easy.

So, probably because it was a sin—fornication, for one, and sodomy, for an entirely other. He didn’t pay attention at church, but he knew _that_. He did. But he didn’t actually plan on doing it again. Too expensive, too damn risky. No matter how long he planned on jerking off to the memory, that is.

It had just been a one-timer.

Then probably because of all those dames, and how much time he’d let them waste on him. It was clear Bucky’s body did not want a woman, no matter how much he tried to convince it to. This was the final nail in the coffin on that idea. But shit, how was he going to get married, one day? Just close his eyes every night and think of—of Steve?

_Yeah, that was what bugged him._

_Not_ because Steve smiled so bright, happy to see him when he got home, and put his feet in his lap as he drew Bucky’s face for the god-damn billionth time. Not because Steve trimmed his hair for him the next say either, and brushed off the pieces that landed on his neck so softly. Bucky didn’t want that. God, he couldn’t want that for his best pal, the man he wanted the best for.

Bucky _wasn’t_ the best. Clearly.

* * *

 

**NOVEMBER 1941**

It had been a day.

An extra shipment came in, and they were already understaffed with all the boys signing up for the oncoming war, and Jim had to go home after Gerald— _damn_ that fool—nearly knocked him out using the pulley like a madman. Just trying to go fast, just trying to get the loads on the dock fast enough to keep up. And Jim stood up right at the wrong time, and _somebody_ had to cover the rest of his shift and, well. Bucky was just tired of this same old shit.

And he was tired of his own personal little shit, Steven fucking Rogers, crowded by two idiots in one of the alleys Bucky passed on the way home.

“Fuck, Steve. Really pal? I’m too tired for this tonight,” Bucky griped as he entered the alley. The bullies turned around, sizing him up now.

“I don’t need your help,” Steve said, but he said it around a fat lip. Fuckin’ Rogers.

“Like hell,” Bucky said, and threw his mean right hook.

The second guy didn’t go down so easily, gave Bucky a few bruises along the way, but it almost felt good. The pain sharpened Bucky’s senses. The smoky, dank air sank deeper into his lungs. The tendons in his arms strained, pulled the muscles with them.

Bucky could pack a punch on a good day. On a bad day?

“ _Alright_ , Buck, you got ‘em,” Steve said, grabbing at Bucky’s arm when he put the guy on the ground and gave him a few kicks for good measure.

“Just making sure they stay down,” Bucky mumbled, though he relented.

Steve led them back to their little hole in the wall, giving Bucky a few strange looks aping the way. The medicine box—property of Sarah Rogers once, who stocked it so well they hadn't needed a refill since for anything but bandages—was still out on the table from three days ago, when Steve got punched in a diner. Defending a waitress, of-fucking-course.

His face finally started resembling something close to normal, earlier this morning. But now? Now those same bruises, mottled green and fading brown, blended like a Van Gogh into the bright pink puffiness of his brand-new shiner. 

Only Steve could look like a goddamn painting with half his face pummeled in.

Bucky reached out to touch it and Steve slapped him away, grabbing his right hand instead. “You first, asshole,” he said with a glare, and manhandled Bucky to the sink. Bucky let himself be.

As Steve ran the water and rubbed Bucky’s bloody knuckles none-too-gently with a soap bar, Bucky surprised them both with a yelp.

“Oh,” Steve said, a little gentler, and inspected Bucky’s hand closer. His hot breath tickled as it fanned over Bucky’s skin, sent shivers up his arm and coursing across his neck. Bucky snatched his hand back. “I think you cracked a knuckle, Buck,” Steve said, pink lip jutting out a little.

_God, save me from that mouth._

“He did have a thick skull,” Bucky quipped. Steve rolled his eyes.

An hour later they were both tucked in, Bucky’s knuckles wrapped in gauze. They didn’t have money for ice at the moment, so Steve was left with a hot, pounding face second time that week. Serve him right, Bucky thought as he laid there. Serve that punk right for doing this, _today._ Serve him right for torturing Bucky out of his mind, every day.

 _Oh, boohoo, Barnes_.

Bucky could recognize a pathetic thought when he thought it. Because really? Protecting Steve, caring for him, living with him, just being in his stupid self-righteous presence?

What a fuckin’ privilege.

Not that Bucky was about to let Steve in on that knowledge. Steve already had too much leverage, too much sway on Bucky’s senses. He got tempted nights like tonight though, when he could feel that familiar charge around Steve. Not his usual, fuck-the-world kind of fury. This kind of fire burned a little lower, a little steadier than that.

“Loading crates with a broken knuckle—”

“It’s _cracked_ , Steve, not broken,” Bucky said before Steve could finish. He twisted to his side, looked closer at the smaller man next to him. “Doesn’t mean you weren’t being a stupid punk like usual. But I’m fine. So shut it. Alright?”

Steve didn’t turn anything towards him but those eyes; dark in the dim night, full of all sorts of things Bucky wanted. The problem with them sharing this shit excuse for a bed—even in the summer time lately, and whose shit idea was that? Oh right, _his_ —was Bucky’s own brain. He’d learned, the past year since his encounter with a man, that _want_ didn’t just go away over time.

Hell no. It festered like an infected wound. Bucky probably needed amputation at this point, before it spread to everything. It probably already had.

Steve fell asleep. But Bucky felt too high on whatever got his system going earlier, taking those bullies down. Maybe this was what Steve was chasing. Bucky felt warm, buzzed. So tired, yet restless. Not the sleepy lull of too much booze or the fuzzy exhilaration of exercise. Somewhere nestled in between.

_Aroused, okay. He’d admit it._

Steve slept like the dead, luckily. This wasn’t Bucky’s first rodeo. He turned to his other side to face away from his bedmate, pulled out a hanky from his pocket, and slipped a hand into his pants.

Fuck. _Abort_. Bucky hissed, pulling his right hand out and shaking it once. The pain ebbed after a second, but that was a no-go. Left hand, then.

A little more awkward, laying on his left side, but Bucky was already sporting a slight erection. He still did it how he liked, but his less-dominant hand made the experience slower. He pulled out his cock and pictured the memory of Nate, facing the alley wall, ass presented. _That was it._ The tight coil of his entrance around his finger. He would inhale as Bucky plunged the finger deeper— _oh fuck_ —clench instinctively. His small, skinny frame would move, rock on the soles of his feet as Bucky finger-fucked him loose.

 _Shit._ Bucky jacked harder. _He would get Steve begging, get him so ready for–_

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut.

He was so close to coming. Into the dirty hanky, inches from his best friend, fantasizing about him. But he'd taken too long, and Steve’s breathing wasn’t regular anymore.

Bucky just lay there, frozen, and he could tell Steve didn’t want him to know he was awake. The smaller man shifted slowly, like he was doing it in his sleep, and let out a deep sigh.

 _Not a bad actor_.

But Bucky knew the weak wheeze of Steve sleeping, and this was not it. He waited, un-moving.

After a loaded minute Steve gave up his careful breathing, sighing. “Sorry Buck,” he murmured from behind him. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t do nothing, pal,” Bucky assured, tucking his cock back in quickly. His hand shook. Irrational—the punk couldn’t know what he was thinking. There was no way. “Sorry I woke you.”

Steve didn’t reply right away and Bucky couldn’t help it, he had to glance over at him.

Shit idea. There was something new—or maybe not so new, Bucky wondered, remembering that little kiss years ago—in his best pal’s eyes, dark and open. He had something to say. Something to _do_.

Boy was Bucky right. Steve reached out a hand, steady and confident, and cupped the outrageous tent in Bucky’s trousers, over the sheets. He pressed down, gentle but firm.

Bucky nearly choked on his own tongue. His hand snatched out, gripping Steve’s hard. Not pulling it away just yet, but. But this? This was _not_ fucking happening.

“Steve,” Bucky said. Maybe pleaded. Maybe begged. Who the fuck knew.

Steve just looked at him. The gaze that could melt stone. And Bucky was the fucking Witch of the West. When Bucky said nothing else, he squeezed his erection _again_ , and Bucky nearly came.

That at least brought him to his senses. He was not jizzing his pants in front of _Steven Fucking Rogers_ because this little shit felt bad for him, or felt like messing with him, or felt guilty about today. _Fuck no_.

Bucky pulled Steve’s hand away and sat up. The bed creaked like a noise in a horror film, startling them both, and Steve just curled up. Like he was about to take a hit.

Steve Rogers never just _took_ a hit.

It was hard to talk serious with a fucking circus tent in his crotch, but Bucky had bigger fish to fry at the moment. Like figure out why the hell his best friend since childhood just tried to rub him off.

“Hey, okay,” Bucky started, just to get his mouth talking. “Steve. Okay. Listen, bud.”

“Fuck off,” Steve said, expression suddenly twisting like a screw. He scowled at Bucky, face all blushed up, and then hid behind his hands.

_Real mature._

“Yeah, that’s the thing,” Bucky said. “That’s the thing, pal.”

After a second Steve sighed, and pulled his hands away. He did a neat magic trick—face cooling to frozen. Stony as a fucking statue.

“I didn’t mean nothing by it,” Steve said, sitting up now too.

Bucky nodded, letting that ice just wash over him. “I knew that, too,” he said, still nodding, he probably needed to stop that soon. This shouldn’t hurt. This was a _good_ thing, that to Steve it meant nothing. He should be fucking _ecstatic_. “You were just trying to help a guy out.”

Steve’s second sigh is a lot deeper than the first. Harsh, bone-rattling.

Bucky found himself hastily filling the silence. “Hell, Steve. I’m 24. You’re 23. We’re at that age—should be coming home to a wife every night for this shit.” Bucky shook his head, wiping a hand over his face. He couldn’t look at Steve when he said this. “I haven’t been helpful. I should be setting you up, like I used to. I’ll do better, bud.”

Steve scoffed.

He fucking _scoffed_.

“What the _fuck_ d’you want from me then!” Bucky shouted at him, threw that nasty hurt like a knife. He was going to wake the neighbors. He didn’t give a single flying shit right now.

Steve flinched, and looked down at his hands.

_Aw, hell._

“Don’t look like that. Steve. I don’t. You gotta,” Bucky begged, trying to say ten things at once. “Look—"

“I’m a queer, Buck.”

He spoke them so softly, for words that blew up Bucky’s entire world.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckin—_

“You’re a—?”

“A fucking _fairy_ , alright?” Steve said, though it wasn’t with any venom. He just waited for Bucky with his eyes.

Bucky couldn’t get a single word out of his mouth.

“You want me to leave?”

When Bucky still said nothing, Steve started towards the end of the bed—he never did that, he just crawled over Bucky to get off—and Bucky still didn’t find words, but he found his hands. And his hands found purchase in Steve’s loose night shirt, pulling him back so fast Steve fell on his back, bouncing on the bed.

“Shit Steve, what the fuck are you thinking?” Bucky said as he crawled over to see Steve’s wide eyes. He grabbed Steve’s shirt with a hand—his right hand, which ached like a motherfucker—and asked, “You think I’m just gonna make you—?”

“You asked what I want, Buck. Now you know,” Steve said. Like anything was that simple. Like what Steve wanted, what _Bucky_ wanted, made a fat bit of difference to the ugly world they lived in.

Shit. Steve _wanted_.

“Fine,” Bucky said, releasing his shirt.

Steve watched him as he scooted back up on this shitty excuse of a bed and pulled the sheets over. Probably expecting something else out of his mouth, but fuck if Bucky could find another word to say. He just held the sheet open on Steve’s side, waiting.

The dim light, Bucky blamed. He couldn’t see Steve’s expression as he accepted the invitation and they both settled back into the mattress.

Maybe if he had, the next shit show of a month would have gone…well. Less to shit.

* * *

 

**DECEMBER 1942**

If art reflects life, so do foreign affairs. They seemed to for Bucky, anyway.

Because, right after Steve blew up their comfortable reality, the Japs blew up Pearl Harbor. Bucky didn’t enlist like some saint. He had to pay rent and put food on the table. Who was going to do that for Steve when Bucky became target practice for fuckin’ Nazis? Any takers?

But then Steve _moved out_.

Like a coward, too. He had all his belongings already boxed up and taken out by the time Bucky came back from his double shift. He stood, strong and steady in the middle of their living room. He filled up entire rooms like that.

Most of the furniture was from Bucky’s ma, so of course Steve didn’t take a scrap of it. But Bucky could still tell. No easel, no ratty quilt draped over the ratty sofa. Steve’s worn copy of ‘A Farewell to Arms’ not sitting on the counter.

“Steve,” Bucky said.

_God, please no._

“I’m only a few blocks west, Buck,” Steve said, and he looked him in the eye. “I don’t want you . . . I don’t want to be the thing that holds you down—”

“Shut your mouth,” Bucky hissed. In a second he was across the room, grabbing at Steve’s shoulders. He shook them, too rough, but it didn’t shake the iron in Steve’s gaze. Unbreakable.

“I’ve got the job with the newspaper—”

“What about me, then? Huh?” Bucky asked, irrational. “You’ll be fine, sure. You ever think about anyone besides _yourself_?”

Steve didn’t pull a fist, or even glare. He had every goddamn right, for hearing Bucky tell such a lie.

“Yes.” He turned into Bucky’s grip, pulling the taller man into a brief but hard hug. “I do, Buck.”

Then he left.

And Uncle Sam sent Bucky a little Christmas card a week later.

 _How fucking thoughtful_.

* * *

 

**JANUARY 1942**

_Camp McCoy_. He always liked camping, for all he never did it. _Wisconsin_. Bucky went to Chicago once when he was 7. _January 11 th_. He even got all of the holidays to spend with his folks. Precious.

Steve found out through somebody, probably Bucky's ma. Somehow he showed up outside of Bucky’s apartment at just the right moment, a few days after the New Year and his family finally gave him a moment. Bucky had brought boxes with him, just to get the small stuff for now. They were all coming later for the furniture.

“Come to help me pack?” he asked, not wanting to hear a single word of congratulations.

“Sure,” Steve shrugged.

They took out all the kitchenware, which filled a single box. Steve started on the bookshelf, and Bucky worked on the ugly-ass green drapes.

“Your place need drapes?” Bucky asked, looking at them in distaste.

“Naw,” Steve shook his head. “The lady I rent from already had the stuff up.”

“That’s nice,” Bucky said, suddenly curious. “She around a lot?”

“She’s in her seventies Buck,” he said with a smirk. “Doesn’t get out much.”

“Ha. Good,” Bucky nodded, going back to work on the drapes. “Somebody needs to watch your ass.”

Figuratively, of course.

_Not that he used to do both or anything._

“You haven’t asked me yet,” Steve said a minute later, interrupting their mutual silence. Bucky frowned at him as he folded the drapes, cocking his head. “Whether I’ve enlisted or not.”

_Oh. Well. How rude of him._

“You have then?”

Steve smiled meanly. “They won’t take me.”

 _Fuck. Thank God and every star in heaven_.

Bucky couldn’t conceal his absolute relief, feeling near faint from it. Imagining being out on the front lines kept him up at night—imagining _Steve_ out there, in open fire? There was something Bucky would trade his fucking life to stop.

It was apparently the wrong reaction. Steve’s face twisted into a cocktail of red anger and butt-hurt—his _specialty_ —and he burst onto his feet. “It’s my _duty_ , Buck—”

“Duty my ass,” Bucky said, crossing his arms, “it’s not your duty to go get yourself killed—”

“—my father fought, and there’s nothing less—”

“—least be happy you’re safe, stop being such a—”

“—then what _use_ am I?”

In a matter of seconds they were toe to toe. Nothing new. Bucky could match Steve’s spitfire, and Steve could follow Bucky's wit.

“I need you safe,” Bucky said. He stopped himself from grabbing Steve, just to feel him there, but only just.

Steve looked at him with a tired kind of anger. “Why?”

Okay, the hard part.

Best friends since childhood, his brain reminds. Roommates, dating partners. Buds. Pals.

_Oh, pal, oh--oh sweetheart._

Shit.

Bucky was looking at Steve’s lips, and he’d been doing it for a while. There was no way Steve hadn’t noticed. Yet Bucky couldn’t stop. He watched that bottom lip flutter ever-so-slightly, as Steve inhaled and exhaled. _In, out. In, out._ He was two seconds from putting a hand at the back of that slender neck, the other at the lower part of Steve’s crooked back.

_Oh hell._

Steve backed away. He said, “See you,” with much too control in his voice, and walked around Bucky to the door.

_Oh hell._

Bucky grabbed him by the arm. He didn’t even have to pull. Steve just turned, just slammed into him and found his mouth and, _wow_ , okay.

_Keep it together, Barnes._

Steve still hadn’t kissed anyone besides the two of them that one night back in 1935—had it been that long?—least as far as Bucky knew, but he still felt like the student, not the teacher. Their mouths just wouldn’t stop, Bucky had to breathe harshly through his nose so he didn’t pass out.

_What a way to go, though._

Steve backed them up, putting himself against the wall, and his hands ran up and down Bucky’s back. _Trying_ to give him goose bumps probably, the little shit. Bucky retaliated with a grind of his hips against Steve’s lower stomach, but it was just as hard of a move against him, feeling Steve’s hard cock against his thigh. Steve laughed at his groan, biting Bucky’s lip.

“You kiss like it’s a fight,” Bucky complained, sucking in the lip.

But that at least got the gears turning in his head, again, even as Steve pulled him back in for another round. He prided himself in not thinking with his dick; but his dick had never liked anything this much. It was hard to slow down, to stop grinding against his best friend, and _think_ for a second.

He felt like fucking Hercules when he successfully pulled out the word, “Wait.”

Steve stopped.

“Um, pal. What’s this gonna be, Steve?” Bucky asked. Steve let out a disappointed noise, looking up like he needs divine guidance. Okay. Fuck Bucky for wanting to know. For having a small sense of self-preservation.

Steve rolled his eyes then and looked back at Bucky, saying, “You’re the one that grabbed me, Buck—”

“Okay, but, _true_. But for me, this is.”

Bucky stopped, realizing how hard the rest of that sentence was going to be. And how fucking terrifying Steve’s answer might be.

Steve’s eyes softened, and he started rubbing Bucky’s back again. “Hey,” he said, giving him a small smile. Encouraging.

Bucky could do this.

“This is—um—it’s. Everything,” he said, throat constricting. Fucking perfect. Steve waited, so Bucky tried to get out, “I didn’t always. But then, when I realized, I didn’t want _you_ to. And you said, but I couldn’t, I _couldn’t_ —”

_What the hell was that? Definitely not English._

“Okay Steve. Listen,” Bucky said, like Steve wasn’t already _._

 _Get it together Barnes_.

“I’ve fucked with a lot of girls. A whole battalion, but—no, that’s not the point. I’m saying _after_ that I, I went with a queer once. It was stupid. But it helped me realize. I, I always wanted you. I always wanted you and I always loved you, so I can’t just—”

Steve took pity on him and shut Bucky up with his mouth. If _that’s_ how Steve interrupted him now—alright. Alright with him.

“I think we’re on the same page then, bud,” Steve said after they finally paused, breathing in each other’s breaths. His eyes were bright and glittery, mouth red from kissing. And Bucky was going to swoon like a damsel.

“Yeah?” he said, mouth splitting into a grin. He was so close to Steve he could only see him cross-eyed, but the punk looked like he was smiling too.

“Yeah, Bucky. Do I have to get down on one knee or something?”

Steve laughed, but that pulled Bucky up short. He leaned back and looked at Steve’s face. Too carefree. Too blissed out. A ‘ _Fuck you, world_ ’ kind of face. It was fitting.

_But fucking dangerous._

“Hey, we have to be careful, though, right?’ Bucky said, smoothing hands down Steve’s shoulders as the smaller man’s smirk faded. “I can’t lose you.”

“It won’t matter much longer. Not for a while,” Steve said, ripping the dreaded future back into Bucky’s view _._ “But while you’re still here—"

“ _Yeah_ , of course, honey,” Bucky said. He put his mouth back on Steve’s.

_While I’m still here._

Steve’s body was small, and sickly, and quick to tire, but god Bucky wouldn’t pick anyone else to touch like this. Steve stopped them just to pull Bucky into the little closet bedroom, but even that time was too long. He was starving for it, to touch and feel and love every piece of Steve he’s been dreaming about for half his life.

One in mind, it would seem, Steve moaned, “I’ve wanted this for—” before cutting off with a gasp as Bucky found a sensitive spot behind his ear.

“How long? How long, sweetheart?” Bucky asked, pulling back to stroke Steve’s still-smooth cheek.

“Gym class of 1928,” Steve said slowly. Like it was an event. Like it was  _No Man’s Land, December 1918 . . ._

Bucky snorted at the thought, which turned into laughter, which got Steve going too. Hell, he loved that punk’s laugh.

When they quieted Steve started unbuttoning Bucky’s shirt, asking, “You said you went with a queer, once . . .”

“A man, yeah,” Bucky said, because that's all Nate really was. “He wasn’t anything special, how he acted. If he’s a queer, I’m a queer.”

He said it so easy, like it wasn’t razor burn coming out of his throat. Like it want jail, or the loony bin. Not because he wanted anything else—fuck, how he _wanted nothing else_ —but because of all the shit he just signed up for.

_Steve already signed up. And Bucky always dived straight after him._

“Okay,” Steve nodded. “But what exactly was it? That you did with him?”

“You want to know—?” Bucky blanched.

_You want a play-by-play, pal?_

“I want to be good for you,” Steve said, chin rising in defiance. Like Bucky will fight him on _that_.

“You’re perfect, honey,” he answered, using that chin like a handle to plant another kiss. Steve just raised an eyebrow, still waiting. _Pigheaded punk_. “I just—I just, y’know. I fucked him. Like a girl, kinda, except.”

“Well yeah,” Steve said, lips melting into a playful smile. God, he was beautiful. But the smile faded too quick for Bucky to taste, Steve going all somber after he finished the last of Bucky’s buttons. “Will you fuck me, Bucky?”

Bucky wanted to say _hell yes_. He wanted to laugh at such a rhetorical question. He wanted, he _wanted_ , but long ago he also had to develop a second sense of self-preservation just especially for this little asshole— _hey, speaking of_ —because Steve never fucking got one for himself.

“How about you do me one instead, pal,” Bucky said, winking and playing that rakish grin. It worked on Steve about as well as it always did.

“You think I can’t take it,” Steve accused. And, because he’s _Steven Fucking Rogers_ , he grabbed Bucky’s crotch signifying exactly what he wanted to take.

Bucky was going to swallow his own tongue one of these days, and the whole damn town would know who’d be to blame.

“We could just—” he said, but Steve shut him up with a kiss, unbuckling Bucky’s pants. “I can—” he tried again, and Steve pushed him back onto the rickety bed. The one their friendship almost fell apart on a month ago. But now? Fuck. Now?

Now Steve was trying to kill him. He straddled Bucky, fucking ravished his mouth—boy he learned quick—and guided one of Bucky’s hands to his gyrating ass.

_God save me from this man's stubbornness._

Okay, so Bucky was only human. As Steve stripped them of the last of their clothing, he was at about 5% brain capacity. His thoughts were as follows: _Steve, fuck yes, Steve, oh shit he’s going to, fuck—_

But then Steve stopped stroking his cock and started positioning it between his little ass cheeks.

Bucky stopped him with a, “Woaaahhh,” sitting up, and Steve blatantly started pouting. “Woah, pal,” Bucky said, willing his breath to slow down, “Okay, listen, honey. We can try but, you’re no dame. We need something to smooth the way.”

Steve looked at him, incredulous.

“One second,” Bucky said, plopping Steve off him onto the bed—way too easily, he was so _small_ , damn this was crazy—and running for the medicine box.  For which Sarah Rogers was probably rolling in her grave, Bucky thought, nearly spooking him out of this crazy idea. But the jar of Vaseline didn’t take long to find, even if it was much too long in Bucky’s book.

Too long in Steve’s book too, looked like. He wore a disgruntled face, raising an eyebrow at Bucky’s find when he returned.

“I’ve got to get you ready, first,” Bucky said, holding out the jar with a shake.

Fingering Steve was an experience. He was such a little shit, he acted like the whole thing was beneath him, but Bucky could tell just by the hitches in his breath when the stretch hurt, or when Bucky found that special spot Nate showed him.

Thanks for the lesson, Nate, he thought idly as he scissored Steve and kept brushing that spot. Steve’s hips started bucking forward, then backward deeper into Bucky’s hand.

“Okay, we’re going to try,” Bucky said, still not sure. But Steve groaned in agreement, lifting his hips up and bringing Bucky up for a kiss.

When he lined up and started pushing, the smaller man made small noises that couldn’t just be pleasure. But every time he stopped Steve swore at him, “Don’t stop, _if you stop_ —”

Shoot Bucky for trying not to kill him.

They started it slow, once Steve swore on God’s throne he was accustomed to the stretch. Which was a good pace, for how close Bucky was.

 _Keep it together, Barnes_.

He started jacking Steve off as he thrust harder, and Steve pulled him down for a filthy kiss every now and—well, soon after.

They came, Bucky first. Then, with a gasp, Steve. It felt less like a flare burning up, and more like an avalanche. Probably because he was locked in that gaze, the one that filled up rooms and commanded armies. And boy, that last thought took Bucky places.

_Sign him the fuck up._

“That was,” Steve started, and then kissed him. After Bucky pulled out they embraced, every limb tangled up somehow in the other’s. Sweaty, stinking of sex. Fucking perfect.

“Geez Rogers,” Bucky laughed suddenly, knocking their foreheads. “You _fuck_ like it’s a fight, too.”

Steve just snorts, wrapping skinny arms tighter around him. 

If Bucky could have _anything_. Anything in the whole wide world, from New York City to fucking Beijing—he’d still be right here. Having this.

 


End file.
